At dawn, when he opened his eyes, the morning star yet gleamed with a last pale luster. Raising himself on his elbow and looking out over the country to learn his whereabouts, his eye fell upon a tree, blood-red, 134 a maple amid evergreens. Behind this somber community of pines, stiff as a band of Puritan elders, surrounding the bright-hued maple, a Hester in that austere congregation, appeared the glazed tile roof of Little Thunder’s habitation, a two-story abode of modest proportions and olden type. As the land baron passed, a brindle cow in the side yard saluted the morn, calling the sluggard from his couch, but at the manor, which the patroon shortly reached, the ever wakeful Oly-koeks was already engaged in chopping wood near the kitchen door. The growling of the hound at his feet called the care-taker’s attention to the master’s coming, and, driving the ax into an obstinate stick of hickory, he donned his coat, drawing near the vehicle, where he stood in stupid wonderment as the land baron alighted.
“Any callers, Oly-koeks?” carelessly asked the master.
“A committee of barn-burners, Mynheer, to ask you not to serve any more writs.”
“And so give them time to fight me with the lawmakers! But there; carry my portmanteau into the library and”––as Oloffe’s upper lip drew back––“teach your dog to know me.”
“He belonged to the old master, Mynheer. When he died, the dog lay near his grave day and night.”
“I dare say; like master, like dog! But fetch the portmanteau, you Dutch varlet!” Entering the house, while the coachman drove the tired horses toward the barn. “There’s something in it I want. Bring it 135 here.” As he passed into the library. “Yes; I put it in there, I am sure. Ah, here we have it!” And unpacking the valise, he took therefrom a handsome French writing case.
“Thou Wily Limb of the Law,” wrote the patroon, “be it known by these presents, thou art summoned to appear before me! I have work for you––not to serve any one with a writ; assign; bring an action, or any of your rascally, pettifogging tricks! Send me no demurrer, but your own intemperate self.”
Which epistle the patroon addressed to his legal satellite and despatched by messenger.